Mad Hatters in Your Head
by pokeitlikejello
Summary: A phone call gets House to come to Drunk!Cuddy's aide. It's a oneshot.


**Disclaimer:**** I don't own House M.D. nor the characters.**

**Author's Note:**** I really was going to post this last night... or later tonight... but I'm posting it now instead. I don't even know what to label it as. It's tentative title was "I don't even fucking know" so... yeah. I do have a fondness for this fic, though, and hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

* * *

You're too nervous for your own good. Really.

_Stop drumming your nails on the counter. It makes you seem anxious._

"I_ am_ anxious," you mutter to yourself, but you stop all movement in your hand.

It's harder than you thought. Him. _Beckoned_ to come to you for a change. And you wish you hadn't called, wish you hadn't lied to him. Wish you hung up the second you heard his voice.

But, you didn't. And words tumbled out of your mouth. Something about budgets and numbers and you were sure _something_ about jail and perhaps the mention of a lawsuit. But, you can't be too positive about the last one. And he _tries_ to convince you that he didn't fuck with your precious budget, but you swear it's his handwriting and the numbers don't make sense.

Then, he asks you _why_ you think he would fuck with the budget numbers. And tells you if he wanted to fuck with you, he wouldn't do it with budget numbers. You remember muttering something, incoherent to yourself, but it gets him to agree to see you.

And now, you're not quite sure what you're going to do when he shows up. You don't know what you're going to say. Perhaps it was a mix up. Or you were missing a page from the budget that you conveniently discovered on his way over. Or maybe you'll just admit that you _are_ that stupid. In any case, you're sure you won't be very convincing.

You're under the impression the alcohol you had may have _something_ to do with this, but you know you can't completely find the answer there. After all, what drove you to have a little drink? The empty bed. It was lonely and sad and you really don't pity yourself often, but you're starting to now. Especially since the 'little drink' turned into more than you can really remember.

The knock on the door makes you jump and you make your way out of the kitchen, clutching onto the dining room chairs because you're sure you'll fall without them. You don't even bother to stop yourself as you mutter a thank you to the chairs before stumbling into the hallway.

Your feet are bare and you stare at them. Glare at them. Hold yourself back from talking to them. You just want to make sure they're walking straight _enough_ and that they aren't going to forsake you just for spite. And you realize you can't just blame your feet because your legs play a large role in your walk to the door.

When you reach the door, you straighten and draw in a breath. You swallow hard, tasting the remnants of the vodka that you didn't even know you _had_. It makes you feel silly. You don't drink often enough to remember what you even keep in your house. And this time, you've really overdone it.

You take the doorknob in your hand, but your hand is kind of numb so you fumble with it for a moment before pulling the door in towards you. The door swinging past you makes you dizzy, but for show, you focus on him instead of closing your eyes.

He stares at you, eyebrows drawn together. And in that moment you want to scream because he _knows_. You are done for and he'll be telling everyone he makes eye contact with on Monday about you and your drunken state. Then, he _smirks_. And you want the floor to eat you up... or to black out. Whichever would hurt less.

"Had a little moonshine?" He's almost laughing and now you want to cry.

"Shut up," you wanted to say, but you're not _exactly_ sure if those were the words that came out of your mouth. It could have easily been "fuck you."

You frown. And step back. And teeter enough to make him enter your home and reach for you. He stops himself, though, when you regain your balance on your own. He doesn't want to fall as much as you don't want to fall.

He shuts the door and you groan. And then he _laughs_ and you swear if you thought you wouldn't fall over in the process, or miss, you would smack him. You know falling over still isn't an option for you and missing him completely would just make him laugh even more. Which makes you really hate yourself because he _never_ laughs at you like that. Hell, it's not often that he even _laughs_. God. You want to die.

"So, were you looking at the hospital's budget this drunk?" he asks you. "That _could_ be the problem here."

You groan again and stumble away from him. You duck into the dining room, hearing the thud of his cane as he follows you. You thank the chairs again as you cross into the kitchen. And then you're certain it's too bright in there and you reach for the light switch. Of course, you miss. Hell, you completely miss the fucking _wall_.

The second attempt gets the light off and you make your way through the now dark kitchen where you pick up the half drained bottle of vodka from its resting place next to the stove. You decide you _really_ don't need to be conscious for this. As you try to decide whether to attempt to pour a shot with an unsteady hand or drink straight from the bottle and probably miss your mouth, a strong hand yanks the bottle from you.

"Hey!"

You reach for the bottle, almost fall, but another strong hand grabs your arm this time and you're aware that his cane just fell against your leg before hitting the floor.

"I'll get it."

You mean his cane because for some reason bending over sounds like the best idea in the _entire world_ at this moment. He holds onto you tightly, though, preventing you from reaching for his cane.

"I'll get it," he tells you.

He lets go of you. You take a step back as he picks his cane up from the floor. You lean back against the stove top, misjudging the distance of course, and get that terrible sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach of impending doom. But, then your lower back slams into the edge of the stove top and you sigh with relief for two reasons. You did not just meet impending doom. And you are currently too numb to feel that pain.

The bottle of vodka clunks as he sets it on the counter. Far away from you. You want to crawl into a hole. Or a cave. Somewhere dark. Because thinking of light makes you shudder. And your eyes fall back on House and you ask yourself why the fuck didn't you hang up.

"So?" he asks.

You glare at him, although you're sure he can't see you _that_ well. You know what he wants to know. What brought Lisa Cuddy to this drunken state on a Saturday night. Alone. In the dark. And unable to form a coherent sentence that is more than four words. You can't give him an answer now even if you tried. So, you shrug.

And then suddenly your stomach feels as if it's creeping up on you. It's full and heavy and doing flip flops that you just want to_stop_. You hurry to the sink, leaning over just a little too far and almost banging your head on the window. You gag for a moment before your insides rush out of you and into the drain.

The intense feeling that plagued you no more than thirty seconds ago is gone. You take in deep breaths and suddenly the feeling's back. You want to cry out, groan, or make some other noise that indicates your displeasure, but you throw up again, leaving an acidic, bitter taste in your mouth.

He turns on the sink. A kind gesture. You draw some of the water to your mouth before spitting it back out. You also realize your hair is damp. And it's not from the water. This time, you groan.

"Come on." He gives a small tug on your arm.

"No." You get out before you're throwing up for the third time.

And this suddenly isn't as fun as it had started out. It had been nice, to unwind, to let go, to see just how many shots could keep up that light floating feeling in your head. But, now you're sick and there's vomit in your hair and you feel disgusting. Especially since he's standing next to you, seeing you like this.

You want to tell him to go. To leave you choke and die in your own filth, but you know you could never get those harsh words out and have them make sense. Besides, you also know he wouldn't leave you. Not like this.

Your hands are dripping as you turn off the faucet. You pause for a moment. Your stomach is still doing slight flip flops and you really just want that feeling of peace that comes after throwing up your drunken insides. But, God is punishing you and you have to wait it out. You just hope you have enough time to make it into your bathroom.

House leads you down the hallway and you wonder if you smell. But, you tell yourself it doesn't matter because you've seen House in worse states than your own and you can hold that against him if he says anything. He takes you into your bedroom and you nearly trip on your bed, but he he has a firm grasp on you.

He leaves the bathroom light off and you're thankful that he_ understands_. You immediately go for the toilet and collapse next to it. You have slight trouble pushing up the lid and seat, but you manage. For a second, you feel better and think that maybe God has shown you pity. But, then you're hacking over the toilet and it _burns_ and you really want to die again.

Taking in gulping breaths, you feel relief wash over you because the peace has settled in your stomach. You fall back against the tile floor and barely wince as your head hits hard. You know you'll be feeling that tomorrow as well as a hangover from Hell. At the moment, though, you really don't care because you've stopped vomiting and that's enough to soothe you.

"You're a mess," House tells you. "Should I make a YouTube video?"

You shake your head, as if it's the best way to answer. He makes his way over to you. Your hand has located to your hair and you stare up at him.

"Mind not laying on your back?" he asks. "It'd suck if you, I don't know, died."

"I'm done throwing up." You know what the words are _suppose_ to sound like, but they don't come out that way. You're sure he got the point though because he attempts to help you stand.

You lean heavily on him once you're standing because the room is moving in ways that basically scare the shit out of you. And again, you're telling yourself that this was a terrible, awful idea. And you are completely ashamed of yourself and that you should crawl in a hole and die. It would probably be for the best. Because the approaching hangover _will_ kill you.

He aides you in reaching your bed. You sit for a moment and watch as he goes back into your bathroom. You flop back because you really can't take standing or sitting anymore. And you just try your hardest to ignore the fact that your vomit hair is on your bed sheets.

The toilet flushes and you groan slightly because you don't like the sound. You want quiet and dark. The water begins running, which is less harsh and therefore tolerable.

House limps from the bathroom and you try to make him out, but can't really do so. He tosses a washcloth at you and it lands on your shirt. You pick up the dampened item and use it to wipe off your face and then your hair. As best as you can anyway.

When you're done with the item, you think it's best to throw it back to him. But, you don't really know where he is and you hear the washcloth land with a soft thud on your carpet. You groan again, because whining makes you feel a bit better. Or, at least, helps get the whining out of your head.

Your legs feel like lead, but you manage to bring them up on your bed to join the rest of you. You squirm slightly, making your way up your bed enough to fit yourself completely on the bed with minimal movement. You reach for your pillow and drag it down to your head where you promptly shove it under your dark, partially dampened hair.

At this point in time, you're wondering where House has disappeared to. You hear his cane thudding in the hall and you don't know if he's leaving or staying or doing something else completely. The door creaks, but your back is to it, so you only hope it's House returning.

You see him approach in front of you, but you're tired by this point and you really just want to sleep away your misery.

"Here." He holds up a plastic bowl and then makes room for it on your night stand. "In case you throw up."

"Thanks." You know you got _that_ word right.

He moves away from you and begins taking off his shoes. You stare at him in confusion, unsure if you want to say something or sleep. You have to debate this for several moments before you open your mouth.

"What're you doing?" you ask and you're seventy five percent sure you got that right, too.

He looks to you. "You're going to have one bitch of a hangover tomorrow."

"So?"

You already know this and don't understand what his point is or why he's taking off his shoes. He crosses to the bed and seats himself at the open space that your curled body has left.

"You're going to need someone to make sure you're okay," he tells you and you frown. "Lucky for you, I've had many experiences with hangovers."

"Lucky me."

You roll your eyes before shutting them. It feels so nice to have your eyes closed and you wonder why you had them open for so long. He removes himself from your bed and you miss him for a moment, but you know you're starting to fall asleep, so you don't protest.

As your breathing evens, you feel the warmth of a blanket being spread over you. You want to smile, but you really _are_ that tired. The other side of the bed dips slightly and before you know it, a hand is rubbing your back and it feels so safe and you wonder if you should get this drunk more often. You ultimately decide that's definitely a no before you drift off.


End file.
